THE only time you don’t feel like working this job is when you see the little ones.

They stand there, sometimes, the wee boys wearing their daddy’s fire hats or the tiny girls not really knowing why mommy and grandma are crying.

And who are these big people in daddy’s uniform?

Yes, and the only time you wish you were out fishing rather than working is when you talk to the wives who don’t quite yet grasp that he is not late, he just isn’t coming home . . . ever. And they always remember the last peck on the cheek before they left for work.

You know, there are different kinds of grief. Of course, a senseless accident. A million-to-one blow of fate or illness that takes the loved ones away.

And then there is that inexplicable and profound grief that is mixed with pride.

A soldier killed in battle. A cop gunned down. A firefighter caught in a fury of flames.

Grief is grief, but even in grief there is pride of the loved one giving the ultimate in the service of others. And somehow, for some terrible reason, the tears are more acrid.

Oh, so many have I seen and heard.

You hear it first: the slow precision drumbeat of the band, matching the measured steps of fellow officers.

Then you hear the somber call to salute.

Then you see it. Right hands across the hearts. It is a physically silent act of respect, but an emotional yell that, inside, says not again.

The limousines pull up, black and daunting. The widows, the children, the families, their loved ones are led into the house of worship where emotion is strangled by tiny gulps.

The spiritual leader, priest, minister, rabbi or mullah talks. You take notes automatically because that’s what you have to do on this damn day. But you don’t hear.

You’re outside and you start to hear again. There are bagpipes, beautiful. They tell you of grace, but it still means loneliness.

And you hear again. It is taps – taps on that bugle that could make marble weep.

That soulful call to mourning was invented by Brig. Gen. Daniel Butterfield and bugler Oliver Wilcox Norton as they viewed the bodies of 600 of their men lost in the Civil War in Virginia on July 2, 1862.

How would they know we would hear it so many times for the men and women in uniform who gave their life for others?

So to make a short story long, that is why The Post today wants to start a sad ball rolling at high speed with $10,000 to kick off a fund for those who are left behind by three of the bravest of The Bravest.

Fire Commissioner Tom Van Essen said:

“I have met with the three families who have endured this Father’s Day tragedy and I can say this: It is an extremely heartwarming gesture to the families of the fathers and husbands who served us so gallantly.

“When people in a community step up to lessen the pain for the children and loved ones left behind, it makes us all feel a little bit better in a moment of such terrible loss and sacrifice.

“I really thank The Post and all those involved in this gesture which tells us that everyone can make a difference even in these terrible, terrible circumstances.”

Why not a fund for me when I croak?

Please save your loot. Like most of us, I live in my own service and those who immediately depend on me. And I will die in my own service.

These guys, the bravest of The Bravest, and those they left behind, gave it up for a different service — you, me, all of us.

And even, in this terrible moment of grief, their families will know they died on their feet and never lived on their knees. For that would have been robbing us of the service we so constantly demand.